


I Love You Like My Best Thoughts

by Adry1412



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eating Disorders, F/M, Good helper Rick, Hallucinations, Healthy Relationships, History of Mental Illness, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Beta Read, Not glorifying mental illness, Prescription Pills, Schizophrenia, Schizophrenic Daryl, Schizophrenic character, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, TAG UPDATES, Therapist/doctor Herschel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, binge eating, graphic suicide attempt and aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-26 14:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15002642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adry1412/pseuds/Adry1412
Summary: A peek into life with mental illness and the sometimes heartbreaking and difficult road to recovery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not claim to be an expert in mental health and I pray this fic isn't seen as offensive towards mentally ill persons, especially those with schizophrenia. (Also mind the tags, please.) I did a lot of research and have been on again, off again writing this story for over a year. I've read books written by people with this illness, researched extensively, and did my absolute best to be as accurate as someone who is not suffering from it to try and explain.
> 
> I will admit I took some liberties with extended stay hospital rules and minor details, they are few and far in between.
> 
> At the end of the day, this is a rickyl fanfiction that is mainly to do with comfort and support.   
> \---  
> Obviously I'm a ball of anxious energy when it comes to posting this so please, please, please comment and let me know what you think.
> 
> This is also my longest fic by a few thousand words or so and I'm sort of proud. It is strange being proud of writing for me so please comment and let me know what you think.

When Rick first meet Daryl, he had been sitting on the swing set at 3 in the morning.  
Nothing but bare, dirty feet, worn jeans, and a thin tee shirt protecting him from the deep fall cold. He'd looked so small, so fragile with his pale face and blue lips, his knuckles pure white, gripping the iron chains. He had looked up at Rick, a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and shook a little at the ends.

"Are you an angel?"

\---  
"Are you hungry, sweetheart?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, I'm making dinner."

He had known Daryl was hungry, his routine making his stomach growl at exactly 7. Rick sets the chicken to simmer, lowing the dial on the rice cooker and wipes his hands. He leaves the kitchen, catching a glimpse of Daryl as he sits on the floor hunched over the coffee table and scribbling away in his journal.  
He smiles, rounding the corner to the bathroom to collect Daryl's medication. He counts it quietly, making sure his boyfriend's kept on track, not missing any days or taking more than necessary. He keeps the medicine cabinet locked, only giving Daryl the key when he's home alone or Rick is busy. They had had an incident not long after the quiet man had moved in, one Rick doesn't wish to ever repeat.

He hardly ever thinks about that first night, when he had rushed to the park across the street to rip the swing off its hinges to end that excessive squeaking. His robe pulled tightly over his shivering body as he huffed across the dark road, eyebrows furrowed in boiling anger. Why he chose the house directly across a damn playground, he didn't know. The trees separating the rusting bars and swings had promised silence, but some nights it didn't fucking matter.  
He had thought it was the fall weather, wind pushing and pulling the chains across it's bars and driving him wild. He hadn't expected the mousey man, who had apparently left the shelter he had been staying at to find the "angel" who told him to run, shivering with his teeth chatting and sitting alone in the dark night. The whispered questions of Rick's angelic status and timid hands reaching for the older man's beard, to feel the salt and pepper hairs, had been enough to make the ex-sheriff smile. Rick had taken him home, wrapped him in a plush blanket with some hot tea, trying desperately not to stare at the scars lining the man's hands and wrists. Dozens, some long and thin, others short and fat, some fresh with dried blood caked on top.  
He hadn't expected that same shy, twitchy man to have taken a room in his home and a place in his heart. But now a year has passed and that exact situation had played out.

Medication had made it easier, the pills making the worse symptoms easier to handle. Daryl hadn't wanted them, fear and nerves making him hide away under the sink when Rick had attempted to take him to the psychiatrist. The Voices had been so loud, those thin hands desperate to block out the noises. He hadn't forced Daryl, no, he had waited him out, talking low and gently and promising it would help him, that it'd get better. Hours passed before Daryl's delusions had settled, his paranoia subsiding enough to trust Rick and follow him to the office of Dr. Greene.  
The older man had listen to Daryl's ramblings, nodding along and asking leading questions. The Voices had threatened Daryl, made him fear everything and everyone and yelling louder when he tried to speak of them. They didn't want anyone to hear Daryl, didn't want anyone to take them away, to silence them. They wanted to torment him, to hide him away from the world but Rick and Dr. Greene refused to let them win. They spoke gently, listened and coaxed Daryl into talking about them, into ignoring the foal things they said. Even if he voice shook and got louder to speak over the thundering sounds in his head, silent to the rest of the world, it was progress.  
It got easier. Not perfect, but easier. And Daryl had come so far. Even if it tore at Rick's to heart to see his boyfriend shaking, eyes distant and body twitching as if he were physically fighting his demons. Even if it tore at Rick's heart to have Daryl sit by him, tiny voice speaking of his hallucinations and his desperation to die; questioning if he were actually awake and “is this real?” But Rick listened, holding him gently and holding back his tears until Daryl's Voices quieted and he was no longer in unseen danger. Even if it were just for the moment. "I want to die, I want to die, I need to die, I-I need the pills, the-the medicine I need to sleep, to die.. I want to die." would eventually turn into silent pleads of "please don't leave me, Rick. I don't want to die alone. Am I awake? Am I- Please don't leave me, I love you I love you I lo-love you.."

"Dinner's almost ready. Wanna come sit at the table?"  
Rick stood at the doorway, watching as Daryl nodded before standing, closing his journal and tucking it back underneath the coffee table in its special spot. The sleep pants were too big for Daryl's thin legs, the tightly tied pull strings being the only things holding them up. His tee shirt isn't as baggy, Rick being lucky enough to find a shirt that fit decently enough on his boyfriends thin frame.  
Daryl hated to go clothes shopping, wanting rather to hide in the clothing rings in between jackets and begging Rick to leave. Sometimes it was his paranoia, the Voices telling him how every other store patron was staring at him, judging his fat legs and ugly face. Other times it was just the disappointment of never finding well fitting clothes. Where Daryl's voices told him to not eat, to lose invisible weight, the labels always told him how thin he was and how even a size small, and on occasion extra small, were too big. So Rick's hand me downs and a few things here and there Rick would grab and bring to the register were all Daryl had in his closet. Although, as much as his lover hated shopping he adored the registers. The steady beeps of the cashier's machines always made Daryl laugh, even if his laugh was awkward and sometimes too loud. That, and all the little candies nearby would make Daryl happy, his thin hands always reaching for some foil or plastic covered treat that Rick could never say no too. Little things, Rick would say. It was the little things that made Daryl happy and he could never mock his lover for that.

Daryl smiled, walking towards Rick in the kitchen and reaching up slowly to rub at his beard. It isn't long, just a trimmed, neat length that allowed Daryl to stroke it and run his fingers through it. "So soft." Rick huffs a small laugh, remembering when he conditions his facial hair so Daryl can play and touch it without it risking any kind of rash or beard burn. Little things.

"Come on, sweetheart. Help me set the table."  
Daryl nods, tiptoeing into the kitchen/dining room and going for the plates and silverware. Rick doesn't mind his strange walk, knowing that Daryl sometimes does unusual things. He doesn't have a reason for it, it just feels right, like a tick. If he doesn't act upon his urges, he runs the risk of that "panicky, sickly feeling" in his stomach and neck.  
He used to walk the stairs.  
Up and down, up and down, all day long. He wouldn't talk or look at anybody, just sometimes hum quietly and bob his head, up and down, up and down. Rick had to ignore him, during those episodes, just walk past him and try to avoid touching him. It wasn't normal, sure, but it calmed him.

"Thank you, darling. You did a wonderful job!" Daryl blushes at Rick's praise, staring at the two set of table settings. His own plate has a small cup next to it, his pills sitting at the bottom in a colorful pile. "What do you want to drink?"

"Lemonade?" Rick smirks, Daryl always wants lemonade. He got a taste for it when Rick made him his moms old homemade recipe. Rick hated that powdered shit and while it seemed Daryl was addicted to it, the brown haired man now loved the fresh one better.  
And of all the little things Daryl liked to do, the only thing Rick had put his foot down on was the man eating the horrid powdered lemonade mix straight from the can. It couldn't have been healthy, Daryl sticking in finger in continuously to then suck the powder from his digit, dipping again and again to get the bitter taste. He'd do it for hours, licking the mix from his finger until he was covered in powder and his stomach hurt from the raw sugar. It wasn't healthy and Rick feared for his teeth, unsure how long the man had been doing the process before they had met. Unsure of how many cans of the mix Daryl had gone through on the occasions where he had money.

"Here you go, darling. Can you take your medicine for me?"

Rick watches him, seeing the edges of panic in Daryl's eyes as he stares down at the cup of pills. He waits it out, still holding the glass of lemonade, knowing that soon something will snap and one of their two options would happen.  
Either Daryl would nod and take his medication or the Voices will win this round and dinner will be postponed.  
He holds back his sigh, willing the pendulum to swing in his direction. He really doesn't want to battle Daryl's mind, not after such a relaxing day. They had spent the day together, watching TV and enjoying each other's company. Daryl had barely even smoked that day, ignoring his pack by the back door and only going out twice. He used to smoke more, one right after the other as he rocked on the lawn chair. Rick wasn't sure if it was a nervous habit of having something in his mouth or if the cigarettes helped calm him, but he was always happier on the days Daryl wouldn't spend hours in the back yard, watching the clouds and whispering back at his Voices with a cigarette between his teeth.

"Yeah, I'll take them. Can I have my lemonade?" Rick smiles, releasing the breathe he hadn't known he was holding and handing Daryl the glass. He rubs his lover's back sweetly as he tips the cup back, holding the mix matched capsules in his mouth before washing them down with his lemonade. Daryl turns towards Rick, opening his mouth and lifting his tongue to show how it's emptiness.  
"Thank you, sweetheart." Rick hugs Daryl's shoulders, bringing his boyfriend to his chest and snuggling him close for a minute. "So proud of you." He places a kiss to his temple, loving the feeling of scarred hands wandering to his hips. The pills aren't perfect, lithium only really helping with his mood swings and lozoft for his anxiety with others attempted to calm his hallucinations yet all seeming to plateau after a few weeks. Doctor Greene wants to try a new one, an experimental one that recently did a run in Europe with only a few hiccups.

It was strong. Stronger than any others Daryl had taken before.

The experiments had been promising, only a few patients having bad or dangerous reactions to the drug. A couple died, leading to the punch in Rick's gut when the psychiatrist suggested it. But Dr. Greene had showed him what good the medicine could do, how it could unclog Daryl's mind and control the Voices. It wasn't perfect, nothing ever was but they were running out of options. Even before Dr. Greene, he'd had been to psychiatrists, each one trying a different cocktail of drugs and none working for long. Daryl's medical record showed the seemingly endless trials of medications that did nothing but clog his mind and leave Daryl on the street, running to homeless shelters with nothing but a backpack of clothes and miscellaneous pills.

Even with his good days, Daryl's hallucinations were there, always in the back of his mind and sneaking up at random. Even the most mundane tasks like folding clothes or personal hygiene routines ran the risk of being tampered with. Visual and auditory were the words Dr. Greene used to describe them. And if it wasn't the Voices it was the swinging between dangerous recklessness and plummeting depression. There wasn't much of a middle ground, not a perfect day where the Voices were quiet and Daryl was content. He'd either spend his days crying and begging to be left alone, hoping to die or attempting things that Rick would've sworn were actual death wishes had it not been for Daryl's stubborn smirk and upbeat attitude. Daryl would either spend his day trying to hide under the sink in his secret hiding spot or try to jump from counter to counter to show Rick how he could "healthy and athletic" he was.

Even on the calm movie day they had shared Daryl's mouth twitched with hushed whispered and the occasional shout of profanity towards the unseen Voices that had apparently threatened, not only Daryl's life, but Rick's as well. And although he was almost proud of Daryl for attempting to defend him against the "man in the hat" that stood at the kitchen doorway, his heart ached as the movie continued and Daryl's eyes strayed to stare at the invisible figure.  
He had swung, on his way out for a cigarette, at thin air before cursing and rushing out the sliding glass door. Rick watched him, standing inside and out of view as Daryl smoked and talking aloud to invisible people. He didn't seem angry, more scared and it destroyed Rick to know he couldn't help.

That had been earlier though, and now Daryl was sitting relatively calmly at the table and eating. The rice had been scooped up into a small ball and the chicken precut into small pieces, the ketchup in its own separate area where it wouldn't touch neither food, just the way Daryl liked it. Rick ate and tried not to watch his lover as he carefully picked up pieces of his rice, gently as to not make the small circular tower fall and placed the chicken along side it on his plastic fork. He'd dip his finger into the ketchup, smearing it onto the chicken and then shove the concoction in his mouth, chewing 15 times before swallowing.  
It took him a while to eat, his method changing slightly with each different meal but following the same tedious steps. His cutlery and plate were plastic, hard to snap and potentially use as a weapon yet rounded enough not to hurt him if he tried to stab or cut himself with them. Rick ate slower, more or less keeping time so they may finish around the same time and Daryl didn't feel weird. He didn't like eating alone and didn't like to think that he was "strange" because of his habits.

"What were you writing about in your journal?" Rick asked, pausing his meal and trying to make small chitchat while the other man continued his process.

Daryl eyed him suspiciously, his hand twitching before he shook his head and tried to relax. "You're not reading it, are you?"

"No, sweetheart. Your journal is just yours, I wouldn't invade your privacy like that." Rick put his hand up gently, showing his innocence. It may not be completely true, for on Daryl's bad days he would sneak a glance and see if the man wrote anything that could help him figure out what was wrong, if the words would even show up, that is.  
The journal was mainly scribbled, lines resembling words and doodles with the occasional curse or random declaration being legible.

"Ok.." Daryl shrugged and prepared another forkful, blushing slightly. "Was writing about last night. You know..the stuff we did and all."

Rick smiles fondly, remembering how the night previous Daryl had been a little needy, cuddling up extra close and moving Rick's hand onto his crotch. They don't have sex often, Daryl was still nervous and his Voices shouting whenever he felt crowded and to have Rick above him for an extended period would sometimes led to severe panic attacks, even if the closeness was pleasurable. Last night was no different, the quiet man silently asking for Rick to toy with him and returning the pleasure with his own shaking hand after he had come on Rick's fingers.

"You wrote that you liked it?"

Daryl nodded, smiling a bit before shoving a rather large bite into his mouth, having to stretch his mouth to accommodate the piece of chicken. He chewed 15 times before answering quietly, "We should do it again soon, please."

Rick smiled wide, loving how forward his boyfriend was being. "Of course, sweetheart. Whenever you want, just lemme know ok?"

Daryl nodded happily, going back to his food. Rick wondered if it'd be like this all the time if they decided to try the medicine. Or would the side effects affect Daryl in a way Rick couldn't handle? They'd have to wean him off his current medications, empty his system and pray the new one would work enough to keep him stable. Could Daryl do that? Would he be strong enough to hold on for the two weeks til he can start the new one? Would Rick?

"What are you thinking about?" Daryl's voice broke his thoughts, leaving him staring at a concerned face with a forkful of food, ready to be eaten if Rick was alright or to be thrown on the floor is Rick wasn't. He forced a smile, having it reach his eyes when Daryl lowered the utensil down and out of harm's way.

"Just remembering last night sweetheart."

Daryl stared, "You look worried though.. Did I do something wrong?"

His knee started to jiggle, Rick talking fast as to avoid the possibility of Daryl running and hiding. "No, no, no! You were wonderful, darling." He sighed, knowing Daryl wouldn't like the conversation but that it'd have to happen. "I'm just thinking about the medicine Dr. Greene told us about. Clozapine? Just wondering if it'd work."

The wording was off and Rick thought for a minute that Daryl wouldn't react nicely. The last time they talked about medication the man had panicked, claiming Rick didn't like how he was and that he was too much trouble for Rick to keep around. It wasn't true, but the man needed constant reassurance for days afterwards, even when he ultimately did take the new medication.

"We can try it."

Rick hadn't expected that, looking up as Daryl ate another bite and kept it in his mouth a minute before chewing. His fingers twitched as he counted off the bites before swallowing and sighing, "Maybe.. maybe it could work better? Maybe I won't-I wont be...crazy anymore."

"Sweetheart," Rick sighed and got up, easing Daryl off his chair and into his arms, holding him close and ignoring the slight tremble that ran through his boy's body. "You are not crazy. Remember what Dr. Greene said? There is no such thing as crazy, darling, just different ways our brains work." He hated the choked out sob Daryl gave, holding him closer to kiss at his hair and run a hand through the strands. "Our brains are just organs, baby. And sometimes they get sick, just like the rest of our bodies. You're brain is sick but that doesn't make you crazy and that doesn't change how I feel about you or what I think about you or, most importantly, who you are."

Mental illness wasn't a joke to Rick. Off hand comments by strangers often boiled his blood and Facebook posts from distant family members and acquaintances about how "bipolar" or "OCD" they were made him itch to punch at them through the computer screens. He sighs when he remembers the one time he actually said something, when a group of teens behind him at the grocery store had joked that a kid they knew was "so schizophrenic!" because of his indecisive nature and nervous habits. Rick had snapped, turning and telling them how horrendous those jokes were and how schizophrenia is no laughing matter. They seemed scared as Rick pointed his finger in a fatherly motion and told them how they shouldn't use mental illness as a joke and god forbid they ever knew someone who truly was ill or if they themselves developed an illness, then they wouldn't be laughing.  
The kids had apologized, all turning with their tails between their legs as they left the store. Rick had just sighed, running his hand through his curls and thanking god that Daryl hadn't been there. Stores already stressed the boy out and if had heard the mocking laughter and offhand comments from the teenagers about his mental illness, he would've broke down.

"You're not crazy, sweetheart. You are who you are and the only reason the medication is necessary is to give you a better quality of life. I don't like seeing you suffer and I know you don't like it either." Rick felt Daryl nod against his chest, the occasional hiccup escaping his throat. "I love you, Daryl. I just want you happy."

"My-my heart is happy. But," he paused and looked up at Rick with damp eyes, "my brain isn't happy. I just want it to be okay." His fingers dug into Rick's shirt, shaking as he begged. "Promise me it'll be okay, Rick? Promise me I'll be okay?"

As much as Rick had spent the better part of the last year holding in his tears, he couldn't control them as they fell freely, his hands tugging Daryl back into his chest. "I promise, darling. It'll be okay. Everything will be okay."

——  
It hadn’t been okay.

Talking to Dr. Greene and stopping Daryl’s medication had been one of the hardest things they had ever done. Not even a week into the detox in preparation of his next medicine, Daryl couldn’t handle it anymore. He’d woken up early one morning, shouting and curling against the bed frame to get away from the monsters only his eyes could see. Rick couldn’t calm him, could only talk sweetly until his visions and voices quieted enough to end his panic. Though, it was only briefly.

He screamed the entire morning, pushing and hitting Rick’s chest when he came near. Daytime nightmares made him shake, walking in circles around the living room. He tugged his hair and screamed at the walls, broken words and saliva covering his mouth. He couldn’t eat. Or maybe he just didn’t want too. Rick tried to talk to him, tried to stop his pacing but couldn’t. Or maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough. Daryl didn’t even want his journal. The pages remaining empty and bent from where he had thrown it across the room. 

The night before had been hard, Daryl becoming frustrated and talking more than usual at the people in his head. Tension was building. He’d smoked an entire pack, begging Rick with distant eyes to get him more. He smoked those too before bed, even briefly bringing one inside, knowing it wasn’t allowed but not caring, when he swore the “man in the hat” was stealing the television.

“Am I awake?” “No, no,” “He’s-He’s here.” “Rick! He’s fucking-he’s right-right there!” “Am I awake?” “No. No, the bat.” “In the-in the closet.” “Gotta hit him.” “Rick! Hit him!” “He’s there!” “Am I awake?” “Is this real?” “Where is..he’s here.” “Rick.” “Rick..” “Help.” “We need-.” “I need help.” “Am I awake?” “Am I awake?” 

Rick had gotten him more cigarettes before bed, coming back and telling him they were for the next day and it was bedtime. But Daryl couldn’t sleep. He sat in the chair next to the bed, swaying before his eyes gave up and he slumped in exhaustion. Rick carried him the few feet to bed, ignoring the slurred declarations and insults that fell from chewed up lips.

“Am I awake?”

He knew what needed to happen. The plan was set with Dr. Greene but they wanted to wait. Daryl wanted to stay home as long as possible. It was a ticking bomb, a countdown to the breaking point where there weren’t any options left. But they wanted to hold on.

It only got worse when the bomb went off.  
The early afternoon had brought another missed meal and outburst, Daryl trying desperately to get into the medicine cabinet. He screamed and pulled, the lock preventing him from even getting the door ajar as the fixture shook. It creaked against the wall, Rick trying to pull his love’s hands away before a thin fist shattered the glass.  
Daryl didn’t scream, didn’t flinch to the blood seeping from his hand. Daryl had stared at the gash across his knuckles, meeting Rick’s eyes with what he could only describe as acceptance. “I’m sorry.”

Rick’s heart broke at the calm and lucidity in Daryl’s eyes. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” 

——

“Daryl, talk to me, baby. You ready to see Dr. Greene?” Rick had kept his voice low, staring into unseeing eyes on the lawn chair. He was thankful the screaming had stopped, even if only because the cigarette in his mouth seemed to hold them in. “Baby, look at me.”

They weren’t ready. They would never be ready. Since the night Daryl had wandered into Rick’s life, they had never been separated for long. Even when Daryl spent a night in the hospital after his attempt, Rick had stayed with him. They couldn’t be, and didn’t like being, apart.

He stared at Daryl’s bandaged hand, grateful it wasn’t too deep and the bloody handprints were limited to Rick’s shirt when his panic had flooded back. 

Daryl’s eyes was too distant, too blue with his pupils shrunken. He wasn’t there right now, only the voices and Rick bit his lip. It wasn’t even half way through the detox and Daryl was already shutting down. He touched a knobby knee softly, trying to bring his lover back. “Daryl, baby, we’re gonna go see Dr. Greene, okay? You don’t have to talk but he has to see you, alright? It’ll be okay. Come on.”

Daryl didn’t fight. He sat and let Rick dress him and take him to the car, no reaction except the mumbled half-shouts at invisible demons. He smoked in the car, something Rick hadn’t wanted but had to deal with. Daryl wouldn’t let go of the pack and lighter, shaking and whimpering when Rick had tried to take them. It broke his heart, seeing the man try and come back as he puffed out the window.

“L-lemonade. Ri-right, Rick? Gotta...gotta get more. Cause..FUCK!” He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for an impact that would never come and Rick bit back tears. He held Daryl’s hand, trying to soothe the shaking. “It’ll be-it’ll be.. You can! St-strong.”

“It’ll be alright, baby. Just relax and breathe.”

“It’ll be okay. Right? I’m not crazy, yeah? I’m not-. I’m not crazy.”

Rick squeezed Daryl’s good hand. The hospitals extended stay wing wasn’t where Daryl was supposed to be. He should to be home but Rick wasn’t a doctor. Daryl needed help. He needed observation and help; time away from the world and somewhere safe. “You’re not crazy, darling. It’ll be okay.” He’d visit everyday. Spend as much time as possible in those blank, beige walls with his love. Just another week and then the new medicine.

“I love you, Rick. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, darling. It’ll be alright.”

“I had..I had a good thought.”

Rick glanced at Daryl, seeing him pull another cigarette out and into his mouth with his bandaged hand. He seemed lucid, eyes aware and bright. He wasn’t shaking as hard, seeming relaxed. He knew, and Rick swore his heart broke at the realization that Daryl knew and had accepted what was happening. He knew that the line had been crossed and Rick wasn’t able to care for him right now. He knew he was going to the place he hated the most in the world and he had accepted it. He accepted the fact that he was a danger to himself and that Rick was making the right decision, even if it hurt him. “And what’s that, darling?”

Daryl sucked in his cigarette, blowing it out the window and rubbing Rick’s hand with his thumb. “It’ll be-It’ll be okay. Because...because you love me. Even-even my bad side.” He sighed and smiled softly. “Because you’re an angel.”

Rick let his tears fall freely when they pulled into the parking lot. He held his head in his hands and sobbed, not caring if Daryl saw. He prayed to the blind god who had allowed this sickness to manifest in his lover for the medicine to work, for the stay to only be three weeks. One more for the damn detox and another two for the damn medicine to kick in. He prayed hard, mumbling to the god he didn’t believe in for a miracle for the life the deity had spent years fucking over.

He felt the hand on his shoulder, not looking at his trembling boyfriend. He had tried to control himself. Wiping at his face and shuddering.

“Rick..the beach.”

The beach. Rick sat up and his lip shook, body shivering when a head leaned against his shoulder.

They stared out at the grey parking lot. Heads resting on each other and hands grasped tight, fingers linking them to one another. They couldn’t speak, both terrified of breaking the fragile reality they shared. No words wanted to be spoken, only the tiny noises of breathing and hearts beating in time together in the cramp car. Rick doesn’t even remember thinking, just focusing on the sounds of his love’s breath. No, he doesn’t remember thinking anything before Daryl had spoken, quiet as ever, the two words that broke the peace and spurred them up and out the car and into the hospital.

“The beach.”

——  
“Is this real?”

Rick rubbed his lover’s ribs, tugging him close in the cold and evening colored room. “Yeah, it’s real.”

Daryl had sighed, closing those distant blue eyes and relaxing into the mattress. He’s was almost nude, nothing except boxers and a pale bracket on his wrist; bare against the sheets and against the world. His scars showed, dulled by the blue glow of the room. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“Why not?”

“I dream this too much. I dream the calm too much.” His lips part, tiny breaths puffing out quietly. His eyes roll under their lids, mind working to keep the peace. To keep the voices out. He looks up at Rick, desperation and dependency flashing. “Is this real? Am I awake?”

He holds him closer, tugging him against his side and kissing a pale forehead. “It is real. I’m here.”

“Are you real?”

“I’m real. I’m right here.”

“You’re not real. You’re too good to me.”

Rick kissed him soft, hands and lips reassuring him of their reality. It’s not in his head, it’s not the sights and voices he hears at all hours. He’s wasn’t sleep deprived or given shawty medication that turned shadows into figures. “I’m real. And so are you. We’re here, Daryl. We’re okay.”

It didn’t stop the voices, didn’t soothe his lover or silence the fragmented sentences that crumble out of chapped lips.

“We’re here.” “We have to go.” “Go to the place, by the beach.” “The sun place.” “We gotta-“ “You’re real.” “I’m not-I’m not.” “Someone’s here.” “They’re-They’re here. Now. We gotta-“ “The beach.” “I remember...sand. And a fish.” “The fish, Rick. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“I love you.”

Rick had wiped his eyes. He held Daryl closer, holding his shaking frame and shoving the ever moving mouth to his chest. “I love you too, darling. More than anything.”

It had felt like a dream and Rick had swallowed at the idea that even moment in Daryl’s mind was surrounded with the faded white edges and surreal peace that came with nighttime memories. The fish had been small and blue, glittering in the ocean. It swam between their ankles, nudging Daryl’s legs and making his eyes shine so bright. Daryl had never been the beach before, his entire being new to the sights and smells and sensations. And even Rick felt his love for the sea revised as he watched the joy and excitement on his lover’s face.

The sand was warm, the water cool on their heated flesh. The fish had swam by them for a while, keeping Daryl’s eyes locked and smile seeming to never end. Rick held his hands, keeping him steady against the gentle, calf high waves as they stared down into the water. The voices were so silent that day, drifting away with the tide and leaving a peace the men reveled in.

They didn’t want it to end. Not when the fish swam away and the sun started to go down. They laid on the towel on an empty beach, holding each other close in the chilly night air. Daryl had fallen asleep in the car, smiling still as Rick drove.

“I remember, Rick. I remember the fish and the sand.” Rick held Daryl close, kissing his head and praying the hallucinations would go away. Wishing they’d drift away like the day on the beach. 

A beep down the hall had let him know the doctor was coming. His visitor passes didn’t last forever and he hated that he had to go home so soon. His bed is so empty without Daryl. His couch and dining room table too cold. Just five days without the man and Rick had felt as if his mind was eating at itself.

“Mr. Grimes?”

Dr Greene always smiled sweetly at the men on the bed. He understood their troubles, the ins and outs of their relationships and Daryl’s mind.

Daryl had shivered in the bed, curling into Rick. “This is..this is real. We’re real.”

“You right, Daryl. We’re real. But Rick has to go home now. He’ll be back tomorrow, right Rick?”

He always nodded and had gripped his lover tight. Daryl looked up at him, blue eyes seeming lucid but he knew better. At least he wasn’t screaming, even the doctor understood the delicate moment and kept his voice low.

If they didn’t whisper, it’d end.

What “it” was was a lot of things; the silence, the comfort, the peace and safety, the memories flashing across Daryl’s mind, the moment away from the panic and anxiety.

“I’m screaming.” Daryl whispered, staring into Rick’s cloudless blue eyes.

“No, baby, you’re not. That’s from your memory.”

“I remember the fish. You-you remember, Rick?”

“I remember, darling.”

“You’re an angel. You’re..you’re the angel who told me to leave. You remember?”

Rick kissed Daryl’s forehead and held back his tears. Maybe his love was right. Maybe he was the angel that drew Daryl from the shelter all those months ago. “I love you, Daryl. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“I’ll remember. I remember everything.”

“I love you.”

“The beach, Rick. You love me. The fish... I cut my hand. I’m sorry.”

“Mr. Grimes.”

“I know.”

Rick sat up slow, leaning to kiss his love again. Weights are tied to his limbs as he walks out, trying to ignore Daryl’s rambling as he leaves. He continued to talk, almost as if Rick hadn’t even left the bed. He whispered until it’s obvious Rick isn’t there anymore, no one but the voices answering his questions. The bed empty and Daryl’s mind caught up enough to start talking louder. And then louder. Rick had to ignore the near screams when Herschel shut the door and led him down the hall. “He’ll be okay, Rick.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t know. He has never known and that’s what scares him the most. He’ll never be able to know what will happen next, either from a day to day or minute to minute and the constant anxiety would have ended up killing Rick if he hadn’t accepted that uncertainty was not just an immovable force but a symptom. He couldn’t control his lover’s disorder, couldn’t stop his brain from creating images that plagued his waking mind, but he could control somethings. And Rick held onto them as hard as he could. He could keep Daryl company in his sterile, white hospital bed, could bring him his journal and sit with him while he scribbles line after line of circles and broken words, could hold his hand while Herschel talked to him and feed him the meals the nurses brought. He could make Daryl smile with photos from their beach trip and laugh with silly jokes and badly drawn doodles on spare sheets of paper. He could love the man with all his heart even if the Daryl he loved was hidden behind layers and layers of darkened muck that clouded his mind. He loved the man who fought day in and day out to break free himself of the heavy bog and come back to him.

Daryl was a fighter. He fought to come back to Rick when the current of voices wanted nothing more than to drag him down. And on the times he succeeded, on his clearest days, the smiles he wore were bright enough to light up all of New York City and all of its suburbs. They were like late night trains; quick, blinding, and reminding him of night rides when he lived in the city and the lights would soothe his soul in a way that only a silent moment in an overwhelmingly loud city could bring. And that’s what Rick thinks to himself when he drives home that evening. He thinks of the bravery he sees in his lover’s face even when his mind is threatening to suffocate him. He thinks of the love he feels when Daryl leans against his shoulder or holds his hand.

Medicine day came before he knew it. The days having blurred into a pattern; wake up, shower, work for a few hours, get ready, drive to the hospital, spend time with Daryl, go home, try not to cry, sleep, rinse and repeat. He didn’t even know how to react when Herschel tells him Daryl had his first dose earlier that morning. He nodded, chewing on his abused lower lip and mind spinning. He knows it won’t work right away, definitely not within the first few hours; but he couldn’t help the bubble of hope in his chest that when he walked into the room Daryl will smile at him in the freight train way he does when the voices are silent.

And it doesn’t work that way. But his love is calm. He’s laid on the bed, arms straight at his side and staring at the ceiling. Rick wondered briefly is they had sedated him, given him something to relax him, but he knows Herschel was strictly against tranquilizing his patients for the sake of peace. He only did it when the person posed a threat to themselves or, in rare occasions, others. He clears his throat as he sits, hesitating before taking Daryl’s hand. “Hey there, beautiful. How...how are you feeling?”

There’s wasn’t answer. Daryl’s mouth doesn’t move but he releases a breath and seems to relax back into the mattress. Rick tried to smile, mind supplying the idea that Daryl had waited for him. Maybe his love’s mind had been too loud, visions coming too frequently and holding his tongue captive and he had waited for his anchor to return. He stroked the frail hand in his own, holding it close and kissing it. The distant eyes closed but Rick can’t say he was upset, drinking in the peaceful expression on Daryl’s face. He turned to the wrinkled doctor.

“All he talked about this morning was how happy you’ll be when you see him. He wanted you to see him take the medicine.”

Rick smiled, kissing Daryl’s hand again. He understood then what was happening. Daryl was a fighter, the strongest person Rick had ever met but even the best warriors needed to take a step back once in a while and take care of themselves; to let go of the reigns and let his mind and the medicine battle. Like the freight train in the middle of the night, the voices came with their lanterns burning bright in a hellish glow towards the fork in the track. Rick imagined the medicine, a strong stoic railway worker whose only goal was to run it off the track with a pull of the level; his eyes trained on the red coal as it approached and grew with its howling whistle until it was close enough. It’d jump the track, carriages bouncing and crashing with a sickening twist of metal. It wouldn’t be the end, the clean up and track repairs being around for a while after. But it’d be worth it. Picking up pieces was easier than standing with your arms stretched out and willing the train to stop in time as to not destroy itself and you in the process.

Everything about Daryl reminded him of trains. From his coal engine eyes and carriages full of surprises, he was everybit a late night machine like the ones who had kept Rick awake during his childhood.

And he can’t help but think of their distant whistles when Daryl finally spoke up. It’s was so small, fragile as it hangs in the air. “I did it, Rick.”

“I know, baby. I’m so proud of you.” He kissed his hand once more, leaning to peck at his forehead as well. “You did it.”

Daryl smiled, eyes still closed and Rick returned it. They didn’t move, Daryl continued to lay and breathe as evenly as he could while Rick shushed and reassured him. They didn’t do much else that evening, just stayed in their positions until the dreaded door beeped again and Rick was sent home.

\---  
The days began to seem brighter, even if the dark is still there at the edges of their sights. Daryl didn’t know how to handle the world without the viciousness of the voices or the lack of need for defenses. He sat on the hospital bed, talking to the voices who are getting quieter and quieter every day. “They’re not as loud now,” Daryl says, biting his thumb nail with wary eyes as is they’re still in the room, hiding and waiting for him to drop his protective wall. He stared at his food, not sure of what to do now that there wasn’t a man in his head telling him to count his chewing or how to prepare it.

Rick tried his best to help, hand feeding his love and sitting in silence with him while Daryl recalibrated his mind to no longer focus on every noise at once. He watched Daryl tap on the table with his fingernail, staring and concentrating so hard on the sound that it seems his mind would burst if another noise were to interrupt him. He read to him sometimes, taking long breaks when his love needed to sit and understand that the voices in his head aren’t those wicked demons who taunt him but his own conscious understanding what is actually being said to him.

“It’s different.” Daryl said once, hand grasping Rick’s so tight it almost hurt. “When you talk...I hear you. And-and...only you.”

He sighed after that, a mix of frustration and relief that Rick could never understand himself. But he had gripped his lover’s hand anyway, smiling at him from his spot on the edge of the bed. He had put the book aside, giving him his full attention. He didn’t understand what Daryl meant but maybe after over a half decade of every sound in the world battling for dominance in Daryl’s head, it seemed now that his mind was able to tell the difference. His ears were “un-mucked”, he said.

“I...had to really focus before. On you. When you’d talk.” Daryl said softly, staring at his lap and speaking slow. His speech was broken as if he were still waiting for someone to come into his head and speak for him; as if he was still waiting for the other foot to fall and the voices to come rushing back mid-sentence. Like it was all a big joke. “Your voice...was always loudest. In my head. Now...I hear you. And see you.”

Rick smiled when clear blues locked on his, the remnants of cloudiness on the fringes but so still they shocked him. They didn’t shake or stray, the slightest smile reaching them even before his lips caught on. “It’s...just us, Rick.”

It wasn’t going to be easy but Rick knew it’d be worth it. If Daryl missed his medicated, either accidentally or purposefully, it didn’t matter. If Daryl needed time on the lawn chair in the yard, staring at the sky until his loud mind quieted, it didn’t matter. If Daryl had nights where the smallest voice in his head seemed to scream, sending him to his journal or rocking on the chair, it didn’t matter.

Because his love would be okay. Everything would be okay.

And Rick swore as the light from the window bathed his love in a glow, messy hair looking like a halo from his spot on the hospital bed. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, leaning to touch his lips against Daryl’s softly. “It’s just us, angel.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two?? Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!MIND THE TAG UPDATES!!!  
>  Very, very big trigger warnings for self-harm, suicide attempts, suicide attempt aftermath and unhealthy coping mechanism revolving around food/binge eating.  
> So if any of these upset you, DO NOT READ. I will not take it personally I promise lol  
> \---  
> Well folks, here we are. I found a paragraph I had written for the first part a long, long time ago and forgotten to put into the fic so I decided fuck it! Let's do it this again! I know some people have been wanting to know more about Daryl's past and his relationship to Rick as well as where Merle stood in the story so here it is! Hopefully this helps tie up any loose ends that make your ass itch.  
> \---  
> This chapter is told through a series of flashbacks into Daryl's past so once again, be warned. Mental illness is not the nicest thing to go through and this second part does get very intense and heavy. If you are sensitive to this stuff, be careful.  
> Alright, alright, I'll let you read now.  
> Thank you! Love you! Enjoy!!

He was 17 when it happened. When the little voice in his head who read the book in his hand to him started getting louder. It kept going, louder and louder even as he closed the novella. He’d started panicking, looking out the window and under the bed, searching with wide, desperate eyes for the man screaming. He turned up blankets and the rug, shoving his mattress up and running out the back door when the deafening screams and shouts didn’t stop.

He had to go. He had to leave now and as quick as possible. Bare feet and pajamas cling to his sweaty body as he ran into the woods. He knew them like the back of his hand, wandered them since he was old enough to remember and knew every nook and cranny but the tree bark and undergrowth warped as the voices shouted at him, turning him around and around until he didn’t recognize anything. He spun and spun, eyes not understanding anything as the moonlit spirals danced in front of him. Dizzy, he was so dizzy and he starting screaming. He screamed at the voice in his head, profanities and insults spilling at his invisible tormentor.

He covered his ears and howled in every direction until, in a blink of an eye, the voice stopped.

The silence was like cold water, shaking him to his core before his eyes focused and he found himself standing in a clearing he knew very well. Panting and sweating in the near pitch dark, he blinked a few times before going back to his house.

He didn’t question his episode. Something inside of him had told him it was alright. Just fix your mattress and close the window. Put the CDs and magazines back in their place and read your book.

And that’s what Daryl did. He sat in his damp pajamas and ignored his cut up feet and pounding heart; picking up his novella and reading.

——  
The voices didn’t go away. They took breaks, giving him a few days of peace before picking him up and throwing him into a static filled ocean. It didn’t matter what he was doing when they came; if he was brushing his teeth or doing homework, if he had just hopped into the shower or was simply listening to music in his room. They didn’t care.

They came fast and loud, hurdling insults and critics into his ears. Sometimes they just screamed, those blood curdling horror movie-esque sounds that shook him to the core and left him trembling. They made him do things he hadn’t wanted too, yelling at him to pace around his bedroom or run, run, run as fast as he could until his legs gave out and he collapsed in the middle of the woods.

He was scared. No, terrified. But not just of the voices that tormented him but of how people would react. How would Merle react? How would his sister-in-law Carol react? What would they say? They’d be terrified of him, scared that he’d be crazy and dangerous, lock him up in an insane asylum and throw away the key.

So he hid them.

Daryl hid the Voices away, even when they came more often. He remembered dinners with his brother and sister-in-law when the Voices yelled so loud and so consistently he couldn’t even hear what Merle and Carol were saying. He’d tried to pay attention, hating as their brows furrowed in concerned when he didn’t engage in their conversations or answer their questions.

They began to question him. They called him into the living room one evening and asked him what was happening but he couldn’t answer. He opened his mouth but the Voices shut it for him. They were so loud. They swam around and around and he felt sick, closing his eyes as the room spun and he screamed out.

The words, god, the words were awful. They were belligerent, insulting and crushing him under their weight. They told him to shut up, to not talk, to not mention them, to run, run, run! It was time to run! He had to leave! They didn’t want him, they hated him! Everyone hated him! He had to die, to listen to them and die!

“Shut up..shut up. Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!” Daryl had screamed back, squeezing his eyes shut. He howled, pushing at the hands on him and swinging when Merle had gotten to close. “Shut up! Go away! Go-go away! No! No! Shut up!!”

Everything spun; the walls, the television, the couches and Carol’s floral shirt, the light in the kitchen and the stains on Merle’s pants. He screamed and screamed and screamed, the fuzzed static in his veins overtaking his body as he collapsed on the floor and away from Merle’s hand. He pushed, pushed, pushed at his brother and scooted back. He was falling, he felt himself falling through the carpeting and wood, down, down, down past the basement and into the cold earth below and forced out one last body shaking scream before his back hit the floor.

And the Voices stopped.

Daryl starred up from the middle of the living room carpet at Merle and Carol’s terrified faces. He panted, focusing on the edgings of concern in their eyes and the bruise that was blossoming on his brother’s cheek. He felt the softness on his back and the sweat on his neck.

“Am I awake?”

\----  
“You alright, darling?”

Rick watch Daryl, eyebrows creased slightly but hiding most of his anxiety and fear in his chest. His hand hovered a bit, not wanting to touch his boyfriend and startle him but keeping it close for support. Daryl’s eyes weren’t as cloudy as before, the haze and glaze having lifted with the new medicine but still distant as he stared at the carpet from his spot on the couch. His jaw was tense and Rick glanced at the cable box clock to make sure it wasn’t time for another dose before looking back when Daryl shook his head, snapping himself back into the now.

Daryl smiled sweetly, blinking a few times before whispering. “Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. Sorry, I umm… I remembered something.”

“Oh!” Rick grinned, leaning close to wrap an arm around Daryl. “What’d you remember?”

Daryl sighed, leaning his head against Rick’s chest. “My brother and sister-in-law, Carol.” He bit his lip, chewing it absentmindedly, mind trying desperately to remember more of them. “I remember their voices but… I haven’t seen them in years.” Their faces were fuzzy in his head, the smallest voice yelling quietly that they probably wouldn’t want to see him anymore. If they could even recognize him anymore. He’s lost so much weight since the last time and his face and hair showed it. He wasn’t the round cheeked, bright eyed teen they once knew.

Rick nodded silently, giving Daryl the space to think and remember. It’s been hard for him the last few months. Between being home again without the voices and the way his brain has decided to remember things long buried away in the corners of his memory, his mind was trying desperately to catch up after years of being fuzzied and hidden behind layers and layers of muck. Hell, even watching TV was overstimulating sometimes without the constant static that used to hum in his ears and head.

“I remember…” Daryl sighed and Rick watched him close, rubbing his back when it tensed under his fingers. “I remember the first hospital.”

\----  
Daryl had fucked up. He fucked up bad.

The voices had been so quiet on the way to the hospital, not a single one showing themselves as he stared out the window and watched the night covered store fronts and street corners past. The world outside was so dark and silent and Daryl had not seen a single person the entire way. He could hear Carol and Merle whisper, straining to stay low and not let the anxiety and fear leak into their voices in the same way his brother tried to keep his eyes from giving away his emotions when he would stare at him through the rearview every other minute. He wished so badly that he could take it back, could make them forget about his melt down in the living room. He wished so bad Merle hadn’t all but carried him to the car and called for Carol pack a small bag in case they needed to stay longer than just a visit. He hated how they were staring at him like he was crazy, eyes peeling back his facade and seeing how fragile and unstable he felt when the voices sent him into a spiral.

It all puts his teeth on edge to be studied and stared at. A voice in his head tells him to scream and punch the back of Merle’s headrest, when those familiar blues flick up again for the upteenth time in the mirror, even when he shakes to resist them. He closes his eyes for a minute and tries to ignore the way Carol has started glancing over her shoulder at him. He knows they’re scared and he hates that he caused it. Hates even more when he’s laid in a sterile bed and asked a million questions by a man in a lab coat as an older, plump nurse takes blood from his arm. How was he supposed to talk when they were constantly poking and sticking him with shit?

But he tries. He tries to answer truthfully. Well, as truthfully as he can with his damn mouth shut. They ask about family and friends, or the lack thereof, and about school and his hobbies and any recent “stressors”; Merle and Carol answering most of the questions with barely concealed fear before he can even open his mouth. The doctor doesn’t even notice, just nods along to their remarks and information and writes stuff down on a clipboard before giving them what Daryl assumes is a damn educated guess. The man’s PHD is on hand and painfully obvious in his tone when he states, in a groggy and sleep deprived voice, that he’d simply had a nervous breakdown. Anxiety from school finals and sleep deprivation from studying were the reason he had snapped and why the voices in his head would come at random times and shake his whole body to its core. Though, the doctor did not mention the voices nor did Daryl. Merle couldn’t talk about them because he didn’t know about their existence. All Merle, Carol, and the doctor knew about was the way Daryl had panicked and collapsed.

So that was that. A strange fluke that left Daryl with a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication and sent home with strict orders to take it easy and rest under the wary and constant watch of his brother and sister-in-law.

\----  
Rick kept his smile to himself as he browses facebook, looking over to make sure Daryl was still sound asleep on the couch before going back to stare at the profile before him. He doesn’t want to wake him, knowing fully well the after lunch naps were something Daryl both enjoyed and needed thoroughly. Dr. Greene had suggested them to not only relax Daryl but to give both his brain and body time to rest now that everyday seemed to be filled to the brim with authentic stimulation. After years of nonstop battling with his mind, Daryl wasn’t used to the world being so empty of overwhelming noise and sometimes the silence stressed him out more than the voices had before. He wasn’t used to a silent room actually being quiet.

He bites his lip, studying the profile photo and letting the mouse hover over the direct message box. The eyes give the man’s identity away more than anything else. Bright, clear blues that look every bit the same as Daryl’s do now apart from the crows feet that line the edges. Everything about the man seems to be the complete opposite of his boyfriend; broad and mean looking with a hidden sadness in his face that speaks of what he has lost. The woman next to him shares the same sad smile Rick has seen multiple nurses and doctors give his lover and he understands that she must have gotten used to that small and shaky smirk from having been around him. He doesn’t even need to go through the photo albums the man has to know exactly who he is.

He huffs and swallows the lump in his throat before he starts typing a message. Short and sweet and to the point, not wanting to overwhelm the man he was contacting out of the blue. ‘Hello Merle. My name is Rick Grimes and for the last year and a half, your brother has been living with me. He is safe and on steady medication and wishes to you and your wife, Carol, again. Please contact me back whenever possible. I look forward to your call.’ He writes his phone number and hits send, shooting a small prayer up to whoever was listening that he gets a reply soon. It’d do Daryl some good to see his brother.

\----  
Between the psychiatrist Merle takes him to every week and the way the voices come more and more frequently, it isn’t surprising for Daryl to see where it all started going downhill.

The woman he talks to is nice. She asks him to simply call her Michonne and every time they meet his fingers twitch with the uncomfortable urge to touch her soft looking, dreaded hair. He tries not to think of the prickle in his neck and stomach when he denies himself the relief that would come with not doing what his mind begs for him to do; like an itch he can’t scratch that makes him feel like a toddler being told no and throwing a tantrum. Her smile is inviting and the soft yet powerful way she speaks makes it easier for him to breathe whenever he’s in her office, even if the maroon couch feels like it’s dragging him under every time he sits on it and the beige, dimly lit walls give the shadows more space to appear and show themselves.

He hates the goddamn shadows.

As the days blur alongside voices who come and go at random times, his eyes start to pick up on things no one else sees. The first time he sees one during English class, the figure walking along the far wall and turning its fuzzy and ambiguous head towards him and he tells himself he’s just anxious. Maybe the assignment they were discussing was too much for his damaged psyche and he asks to be excused, ducking his head and rushing to his locker to take his medication. A small pill from a bright orange canister, that’s just the first of what seems to be hundreds when he thinks back on it.

They start coming around more and more, sneaking up when he’s just going about his day and scaring the daylights out of him when they move too quick. They’re dreaded things, some lumpy and short, others tall and gangly, and even others which shake him to his core when they crouch alongside furniture or jump at him when he rounds the corners of hallways. He sees them everywhere; in the shower when he’s brushing his teeth, under the sink when he chews on Captain Crunch in the morning, crawling on his ceiling with gnarled limbs as he tries to block it out and focus on his book, or behind his therapist when she scribbles in her notebook.

He tries not to look at the one hovering behind her, his eyes focused and staring hard at her as he grits his teeth to ignore the voices screaming at him to ‘Look! Look! He’s gonna kill her! Kill her, kill her, kill her!’ She keeps on trying to talk to him, her voice so gentle it doesn’t stand a chance at battling the onslaught of howling noises and shrieking laughter his ears are picking up. He stares at her, nodding to pretend he hears everything she says and smiling when she does even if it pulls at his skin in a painful way.

Maybe he stares too intensely because he doesn’t even notice when she stops talking and frowns. “Are you okay, Daryl?”

He’s not okay. He’s definitely not okay and he chuckles internally when she asks him. Except it wasn’t internal and he ends up barking out a loud laugh that makes them both flinch. It happens again and again and he hates the concern on her face when he laughs alone and frightened in an endless loop he can’t break free from. It keeps going and going, Michonne setting her notebook aside to sit next to him on the horrendous couch and he shrinks away from her hands when they come near. His lips feel like they’re splitting and he knows he probably looks crazy with his wide, scared eyes when he tries to frown or force his mouth closed but the laughing keeps it wide and agape. He wants to yell that he’s not crazy, that if she gave him a moment he’d be able to get it under control and that he wasn’t laughing at her. He gasps and chokes around the sounds, chin slick with saliva but unable to stop the hitching of his breath of the ghastly laughter spilling from his sore throat. He wants it to stop, wants control back over his body but the sound grates his ears and wrings out his nerves even when he tries his hardest to stop them.

His face hurts and his stomach is churning painfully by the time the attack stops, body slumping in exhaustion against the armrest as he cries. He can hear the voices howl in amusement at the tears staining his cheeks, can see the worry and judgement on Michonne’s face even he looks up at her with puffy eyes and quivering lips. “I’m sorry…”

He waits until the evening to down the bottle of ADHD medication she prescribes him alongside the sleeping pills Carol keeps in the bathroom cabinet.

He can’t remember what Merle had been saying, just remembers the way he screamed at him when they found him on the couch and how it felt like he was underwater. His eyes were unfocused, lids too heavy to keep open for more than a few moments at a time and ears clogged and fuzzied. He remembers his brother shouting and shaking him to stay awake. He remembers Carol’s tear streaked face as she yelled at the emergency phone worker to send an ambulance and the way Merle had to wipe away the drool on his chin before he shoved his fingers down Daryl’s throat. He remembers vomiting on the living room carpet, the bright orange and blue pills littered on the flood and covered in his own stomach acid.

He remembers flashing lights and his brother carrying him out the door but he doesn’t remember the ride to the hospital. Doesn’t remember the EMT men trying to keep him awake or the doctors who pumped his stomach. Daryl doesn’t even remember waking up the first time but he remembers the silence in the room. He remembers how the voices had stayed quiet and how the only sound was Carol’s soft sobbing and the steady beeping of the machine attached to the wall.

The begging he had done to Merle when he gained his wits back was pathetic. He recalls how he had cried and pleaded with his brother not to send him away. He hadn’t wanted to go to the extended stay hospital, didn’t want to be locked up with lunatics who would do god-knows-what to him and doctors who would probably just stick him with a million needles and medications and force him to sit through group therapy until his brain was putty.

He preyed on Merle’s weaknesses, hit on the point that were wary and flashed the same puppy eyes he used to use when he was a stubborn child who wanted ice cream before dinner. He knew Merle wouldn’t want him to be taken away, knew his brother would rather die than be separated and Daryl hated to admit he had taken advantage of Merle through guilt and empty promises that it was a fluke, an accident that would never be repeated. He convinced Merle to talk the doctors out of admitting him, promised he wouldn’t do it again and that he’d start an antidepressant with his regular medication.

He apologized to his brother and sister-in-law and swore he’d talk to them first if he ever felt like he was falling off the deep-end again. He promised he’d never try to kill himself again.

He broke his promise a year later with bleeding wrists when his new therapist diagnosed him with manic depression and the new pills added to his steadily growing cocktail made the voices scream louder than he’s ever heard them before. 

That time, Merle couldn’t lie to the doctors that was an accident and he spent six months in an inpatient facility trying to convince the psychiatrists and nurses he wasn’t crazy and passing the time between group therapy as best he could. Merle and Carol couldn’t visit because of the 124 mile distance and he remembers the shellshocked way his brother had stared at him when he was released, eyes taking in his now long, limp hair and rounded belly. He’d gained almost 40 pounds during that half year, a result of the constant presence of snack cakes, candies, and soda and mind numbing hours of boredom that gave him nothing more to do than eat and smoke in the yard while the overworked therapist tried to rationalize his apparent insanity.

Food had become a stress reliever in the facility, gave him something to do as to not think or stare at the brick walls for hours on end. Sweets and snacks were plentiful and with nothing else to do with the money Merle would wire him he got a taste for sugary, unhealthy things and chain-smoking cheap cigarettes whenever he went outside. His first time eating straight from a canister of lemonade mix was behind those wretched light blue walls. That was just one of the many bad habits he carried with him long after leaving that place along with his smoking and self-harm.

He’s lost all the weight now and then some, looking nothing like the man in the photo Carol had taken after his release. It sat in a box now under the coffee table of Rick’s and his home, a ways away from the bottom of his filthy travel backpack he had had when his lover first found him. Daryl can hardly recognize the round faced man drinking a soda and staring at the camera with distant eyes but he can remember the voices that plagued his mind when his sister-in-law snapped the shot in their old living room.

\----  
Virginia.

Virginia was a long ways from his original home outside of Atlanta and Daryl remembers the way he had stared at his boyfriend as if he had three heads when he was first told he was about 12 hours away from his old home.

He remembers bus rides and hitch hiking. Remembers men in trucks a few teeth short who gave him lifts here and there and angry, red faced bus drivers who threw him out on the sides of highways when they realized the ticket he gave them was years old and not even for the state they were driving in. He never had a destination in mind; the then near constant voices in his head continued their routine of ‘run, run, run!’ now evolving into the urgent and panic inducing need to leave whatever town he had been staying in to go somewhere new. He’d been up and down the entirety of the east coast as far down as the boardwalks in Miami he’d slept under to the one summer he spent hiding in the pine barrens of New Jersey and even a brutal winter shelter hopping in New York City.

He’d been running from his mind and the voices that haunted him almost every hour of every day until he had somehow managed to make his way to Virginia where whatever ounce of luck was left in his natural elements damaged body showed itself in the form of his boyfriend Rick.

Rick. The same mind bendingly unbelievable Rick who had just told him his brother was on his way from Georgia to see him.

Merle had written back to Rick’s message in what the man believed was hesitant joy. The phone call was later in the evening, when Daryl had gone out for a now rare cigarette and Rick kept an eye on him as he spoke to the oldest Dixon. His voice was rough and low over the phone, cracking every few words in barely repressed excitement and heavy with emotions he tried to hold back. He heard a woman as well, Carol he assumed, as she asked a million questions in an overzealous whisper at the potential of having actually located Daryl. Rick could hear when she gasped and sobbed happily when the men discussed the older couple driving up the next day to be reunited. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face when he read off his address for Merle to write and felt his eyes string with unshed tears when the stoic voiced man chuckled in disbelief and thanked him.

Daryl wasn’t a missing person. Rick knew from his previous years on the force that when an adult runs away from their home, they aren’t chased. It didn’t matter that Daryl had a mental health problem and would have been considered an “endangered adult”, the man wasn’t under anyone’s guardianship until Rick, no matter how limited it may be, and with no crime committed or court order issues there were little options to take. He was free to leave at his own will and Rick could feel the heartache in Merle’s voice when he briefly explained the gut wrenching years they had endured without his brother. There weren’t any stones to overturn because Daryl had left without a trace. He had no legal strings attached and Merle had had his hopes shattered when the police told him there was nothing they could do.

Daryl had been running for almost 4 years from no one but himself and the gaping hole in his brother’s and sister-in-law’s heart was painfully obvious.

“When are they coming?”

“Day after tomorrow. They’re driving and are gonna stop halfway to rest, probably get a motel for the night.” Rick smiled, watching the way Daryl’s lips quirked a bit. His lover shook his head, laughing at the absurd idea that seemed more fact than fiction but was nonetheless true. Rick cooed softly, wiping the dampness from his boyfriend’s eyes and pressing a tight kiss to his forehead. He ignored the small apology Daryl whispered, shaking his head. “It’s alright, darling, you can cry. It’s an emotional situation, seeing your brother after all this time.”

“You really did that for me?” Daryl whispered against Rick’s collar, sniffing and wiping at his face. “You really found him for me?”

“Of course, angel. I’ll do anything for you, you know that.”

\----  
Daryl was 23 when he admitted to another inpatient hospital. Or was it 24? His age didn’t matter, nothing seemed to matter within the blank, light blue walls of the one place on earth he never wanted to return too. He felt sick when they forced a pen into his hand and claimed that signing away his freedom was the only way he would ever get better. And maybe they could have seen it coming. Maybe he could have given his family a warning if he had simply opened his damn mouth and stood up to the voices for once in his damn life.

As Daryl’s mental health failed more and more, Merle announced that they were leaving. A new start for the three of them to shine a little light into their increasingly bleak existences. With the same routine of twice weekly therapy, nights spent in silent observation from his brother and Carol, and the meltdowns and panic attacks occurring more and more often than any of them would like to admit, the schtick was getting old; even if Daryl was careful about mentioning the voices. Psychiatrists came and went, his brother dragging him all across the state, and even down to Florida, to get new opinions and possible options for him. It blended together in a sick smoothie that left the small family splintered around the plethora of orange pill bottles and quick ER visits when he reacted badly. A new house was Merle’s attempt to break their cycle and inject some positivity and optimism into the greying world warping around them.

It was too different than the old place, the one story ranch about an hour further away from the city promising a closer and safer living space so Merle and Carol could take better care of him. Or so they said, although the words rang different in his head. The voices screamed day in and day out about how they didn’t trust him, that his new room next to theirs was a prison cell to keep him contained and watched constantly. They screamed about how he was a danger to both them and himself and he felt his defence against them slip. And some nights, Daryl didn’t fight them at all. He made a secret promise to himself and tried to accept his imprisonment as long as he could. For Merle and Carol’s sake.

But with box after box invading the already squished new home, his anxiety skyrocketed. He remembered the way Merle had unpacked his books for him, asking simple questions about where they should go on the shelves and had he seen the backyard yet, to keep up the idle chit chat that itched under his skin and sent the voices in a horrendous spiral of insults and laughter at churned his stomach and fuzzied his ears until he could barely understand his brother’s words. So he had sat mutely on the bed, watching with wary eyes as his stuff was touched and moved about as if he were so helpless, so mentally broken, he couldn’t even lift a book without breaking down.

And it should have been obvious to his brother when the stress from the moving and the voices in his head had become too much. He had snapped one dinner, shouting about how plastic forks and take out weren’t real food even though he knew the utensils he was used too were still packed in one of the many miscellaneous boxes. He screamed and paced, wanting some semblance of normalcy in the constant unpredictable shit show that was his life and hating the way his family stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. He knew it was wrong but when the voices bated him to go on and on and on about every single problem they pointed out with the home until he couldn’t stop. Anger and fear mixed in his gut, tears running down his still round cheeks when the pair tried to talk him down, tried to ration with him, and questioned why he hadn’t said anything earlier about how much he apparently hated the house. He rambled and blubbered like a lunatic, throwing the fortune cookies on the floor and stepping on them even when his rational mind told him not too and Merle begged him to calm down and explain himself. ‘Why did you do that? What’s wrong? Why are you screaming? What are you saying, Daryl? What are you saying? Calm down! Talk to us! What’s wrong?’

He couldn’t calm down and everything was wrong. The room in the cramped house spun and he tried to grab at more tasteless cookies to stomp on, howling when Merle had pulled him back and begged for him to talk to them. He felt so sickened, so horrible in that moment for lashing out at the only people he cared about that when his brother released his budgy body, he sprinted to his room. He slammed the door, barely noticing that Merle had removed the lock. He knows in retrospeck why his brother had done it but at the moment it was too much for his mind to handle. The voices threw belligerent accusations and threats, hollering about the lack of trust he was given as shadows danced and laughed in his tear blurred vision. He could stop, couldn’t control his spinning and screaming.

He screamed and screamed and screamed until his knees hit the floor. Between suffocating gasps and sobs and clawing at the ugly blue carpeting under his chewed off fingernails, his mind was made up. He doesn’t remember if the voices had decided for him or if the last corner of his broken mind that still belonged to him had finally given up the fight, and waved a flag of surrender, but he should have seen it coming. He should have known he would end up there again.

The facility was the only place left able to handle his self-destructive tendencies when he had once again filled his stomach with as many pills he could find scattered around the home his brother swore would have brought him happiness. So he signed the papers and hoped his brother could forgive him.

\----  
“When are they getting here?”

“In about an hour, darling. Carol just texted me.”

“An hour?” Daryl shouted, “But they were an hour away two hours ago!”

“There’s some traffic on the highway, sweetheart.” Rick smiled, reaching out to stop Daryl as he wore a trench in the hardwood floors. His lover had been on edge all day, working his thumb nail down to its base and pacing the living room, back and forth, since they finished breakfast. His excitement and anxiety were palpable, the younger Dixon having gone through their shared closet to find the nicest outfit that fit his thin frame and even brushed his long hair and unruly bangs to the side and away from his lovely face. Rick grinned at the slim cut jeans and oversized black sweater Daryl had chosen, loving getting to see his lover in something that was clearly comfortable and showed a side of the younger man in the way hand-me-downs and loose pajamas simply couldn’t. It was the first outfit Daryl had chosen for himself since he moved in and the first time Rick had seen him pick an outfit to wear instead of giving up the decision making to the ex-sheriff.

“Don’t worry, baby, they’ll be here soon. I promise.” Daryl huffed, scrubbing his face before stopping and taking a deep breath. Rick couldn’t keep the proud smile off his face, loving the way his boyfriend was doing the calming techniques Dr. Greene had suggested. He pulled Daryl close, resting their foreheads together and copying his breathing to encourage him further. “Come on, darling.What do you say to watching a few of those antique auction shows to pass the time quicker, huh?”

And how could Rick resist pressing a kiss to the shy smile that graced his lover’s lips? “I say we should go for it.” Daryl chuckled, leaning his head against Rick’s harder and sighing happily. “And-and can we get some lemonade to drink while we watch?”

“Of course, darling.”

\----  
Another six months of Daryl’s life were to be spent behind those dreadful light blue walls. He’d signed the paper when he was conscious and aware enough to understand the deep lines and watery eyes on his brother and sister-in-law’s faces were once again due to his actions.

He was an adult now, too old to rely on his brother to do his laundry or call and make his doctors appointments or sign him up for extended care. If he could make his usually stoic brother sob at his hospital bedside for the third time in just a few years, he could man up and take responsibility enough to grab the ballpoint pen and sloppily sign himself away.

And he tried his best. He went to every group and private therapy session, even taking his medicine on time without much hassle and lifting his tongue to show the nurses how dedicated to getting better he truly was. He didn’t care if the voices got so loud, with the new medications, he couldn’t sleep or that the shadows plaguing his mind and room showed themselves every time he opened his eyes. He didn’t care when his therapist snapped his fingers in his face or when the orderlies snickered behind his back when he began rambling to himself in the courtyard between smoke puffs and quick pacings back and forth. He didn’t care when his already tight hospital issues pants got even tighter with each passing snack cake or the cigarettes in his mouth burned his lips when the filter disappeared in his daze.

Daryl only cared about the stunned look on his therapist’s face when for the first time, since that night he was only seventeen years old, he mentioned the Voices in his head.

From the moment the bomb dropped and the words came out of his mouth, it was like the universe outside his mind was connecting together before his eyes. His therapist’s writings turned to a quick phone call to the main doctor, the doctor calling the nurses at the mini pharmacy next to the cafeteria, the nurses changing his medication from his cocktail of multi-colored pills to a much smaller pile of pastel colored ones, and finally a phone call to his brother that shook Daryl’s very existence when Merle’s sobbing could be heard on the other line in the silent, cramped therapy office.

But above all else was the fact that there was another bomb. The explosion rattling his ears when he was finally given a term to use for the Voices in his head and finally a name to put to the face of the illness that had plagued the last 6 years Daryl’s life and promised incurability and heartache to his already stressed brother.

Auditory hallucinations. Schizophrenia.

His therapist continued to talk long after Daryl’s mind was shut down. His brain was buzzing and repeating the awful words like a broken record as the man rattled off medication and co-occurring disorders, mentioning different types of potential therapies and exercises to help Daryl get a hold of his new, and hopefully final, diagnosis. But where the man spoke of exercises, the Voices screamed over the shellshocked record player about his fat legs and chubby cheeks. And while he spoke of medication to control his hallucinations, the Voices assaulted Daryl’s mind with combative and hostile insults and threats meant to hurt and break him down. They didn’t like that Daryl mentioned them. Didn’t like that the new medicine was going to try and steal them away. They didn’t like the way the doctors smiled those self-satisfied grins at having finally figured out what was wrong with the youngest Dixon. 

And the very angry Voices made sure they were heard.

A day after his diagnosis, Daryl approached the station nurses like a puppet on invisible strings to get his backpack and he walked out the front door. He regrets having signed himself in because it made it that much easier for the Voices to sign him out.

He never called his brother, never took the offered taxi or bus rides from the doctors to bring him back home. He walked down the street in the late afternoon sun, away from the hospital and away from his only hope to ever get better. He didn’t feel the southern heat on his skin or heavy pack on his back, the only thing in his mind being the ghastly laughing from the finally victorious Voices who’d won a million small battles and, although he had tried, ultimately the war.

He did what they said and went where they told him and when the loudest of the group started to scream and chant ‘run, run, run!’, the last of his sanity waved a final white flag and his feet picked up their pace. He ran and ran and ran as fast and far and long as he could and the days turned into weeks and months. Years were spent running in a half asleep and dissociative daze in whatever truck or bus took pity on him until his too thin legs gave out and he crashed into the man with a salt and pepper beard and sparkling blue eyes.

“Are you an angel?”

\----  
The car wasn’t much. A simple, blue hatchback with Georgian plates that tugged at the skin of Rick’s lips when he opened the door and waved.

Grey hair was the first thing he noted, seeing the similar shades on both the frail looking woman and the hefty, stoic man with the familiar blue eyes as his lover who had slipped out back not a few minutes before for a cigarette in the yard. He opened the screen door, shaking Merle’s hand and hugging Carol as both sets of eyes darted around briefly, and hopefully, for Daryl. “He just went out for a cigarette but please, make yourselves at home!”

“Thank you, Rick.” And he realized then the reason the older Dixon’s voice had resonated so deep in his younger brother’s ill mind. Deep and timbering, it rang so different than over the phone where the tall posts and invisible lines mudded up the tone. He sounded so strong and steady even if it vibrated with an underlying sadness that spoke of time lost between siblings.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep the emotions at bay as he helped Carol remove her jacket, all three turning when timid voice broke the awkward silence between them.

“Merle?”

Rick watched the older man’s face, seeing the pieces fall into place with wide, open eyes as he took in the sight before him. Daryl didn’t look like the overweight man in the crumbled picture under the coffee table or the sickly pale and metaphorically lifeless man hopping from one hospital bed to another. He didn’t look like the scarred and shaking man who hitchhiked his way up and down the coast to get as far from his demons as possible or even like the bouncy haired, bright eyed kid Merle had raised since birth. And Rick thinks that must have been the hardest image to give up. Daryl had gone through so many changes and profiles that the thin, wavy haired and smiling man before him was someone almost entirely new to Merle.

He was a warrior. A new reincarnation of the man Merle loved most in this world and Rick can see the man his big hands twitch and feet almost slip when he crosses the living room in three large strides to embrace him.

The burly man’s shoulder shake in silent tears and Rick pinched his eyes, barely holding back his own and nonchalantly wiping them away. Couldn’t stop them from falling, not when Carol is covering her mouth and joining their hug, running her hands through his medium length hair and kissing his teary cheeks. Merle’s knees look like they’re buckling when his baby brother hugs him back, slumping against him and gripping him so hard Rick can feel the emotion in them before turning away a moment. He gives them a few minutes, excusing himself and walking into the kitchen to ready the pitcher of lemonade Daryl had wanted to share with his brother and sister-in-law.

Daryl had wanted so badly for everything to be perfect when they came. He wanted to drink lemonade and eat the ‘good cookies’, as he called them, with the pair. He wanted to sit with his brother and tell him everything, from explaining his medications and routine to his kind old therapist Dr. Greene and even tell him about how he’d met Rick when the night was so freezing it reminded him of the ice box they used to have in their old childhood yard.

He wanted to apologize for the years of pain and hurt he’d caused them and he wanted to tell them his illness and suicide attempts had nothing to do with the care they gave him because he knows on some level the pair blame themselves. But most of all, he wanted to thank them for doing all they had. He wanted to acknowledge how much Merle and Carol did for him when he wasn’t aware enough to realize and when his mind was gnawing at itself until he couldn’t take it anymore. And when he sat on the couch between his brother and sister-in-law, it struck him as something familiar. Something hidden away in the corners of his mind that were still covered in dust and it took a moment to realized what it was.

It had been over a decade since the last time the trio was able to sit on a couch together in peace. The anxiety that had started to bubble in his stomach from being surrounded was a remnant of the time spent under their wary watch in both the ranch style house as well as the old one when the last years of his adolescence were stolen from him by the wicked voices. But now was not like then and the dread in him disappeared when he was reminded of the time long before. He was reminded of the years he’d spent with the couple before his illness manifested, when his mind wasn’t eating at itself with hallucinations and paranoia.

He remembered how it felt so much like this moment now. “Merle… I’m so sorry.”

Merle shook his head and Daryl couldn’t look away from the happiness sparkling in his big brother’s eyes or pull his hands away from where his brother’s squeezed them. “Ain’t nothing to apologize for, Daryl. You’re safe and happy and that’s all I could ever ask for.”

“Thank you. For-for driving so far and-and for still wanting to see me.”

“Don’t thank me for that, Daryl. I’ll do anything for you, you know that.”

“I know. Thank you for everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please comment and let me know what you think! I know it's easy to just kudo and move on but a comment, any comment, no matter how short, makes my entire day and makes me want to keep writing. So please, comment and give me some love lol

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, please comment and let me know what you think. Thank you so much for reading.


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